Page 112 of Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

Thomas had no idea where he intended to go. When he moved through the rectory, brushing past the housekeeper, who’d gone from disinterest to unabashed eavesdropping; when he walked down the front steps and into the bright Irish sunlight; when he stood there for a moment, blinking, disoriented, he only had one thought—

Away.

He had to get away.

He did not want to see his grandmother. He did not want to see the new Duke of Wyndham.

He did not want Amelia to see him.

And so he hopped on his horse and rode. He rode all the way to Butlersbridge, since it was the only place he knew. He passed the drive to Cloverhill—he was not ready to go back there, not when the rest of them would be returning so soon—and continued on until he saw a public house on his right. It looked reputable enough, so he dismounted and went in.

And that was where Amelia found him, five hours later.

“We’ve been looking for you,” she said, her tone trying to be bright and cheerful.

Thomas closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing one finger along the bridge of his nose before he replied. “It appears you have found me.”

She sucked in her lips, her eyes resting on the half-empty tankard of ale that sat before him.

“I am not drunk, if that is what you are wondering.”

“I would not fault you if you were.”

“A tolerant woman.” He sat back in his chair, his posture lazy and loose. “What a pity I did not marry you.”

Not drunk, perhaps, but he’d had enough alcohol to have become a little bit mean.

She did not reply. Which was probably for the best. If she’d given him the set-down he so richly deserved, he’d have had to respond in kind. Because that was the sort of mood he was in. And then he’d have to dislike himself even more than he did right now.

Frankly, he found the whole proposition rather tiresome.

She did not deserve his foul mood, but then again, he had attempted to remove himself from social interaction. She was the one who had hunted him down, all the way to the Derragarra Inn.

She sat in the chair across from him, regarding him with an even expression. And then it occurred to him—

“What are you doing here?”

“I believe I said I was looking for you.”

He looked around. They were in a pub, for God’s sake. Men were drinking. “You came without a chaperone?”

She gave a little shrug. “I doubt anyone has noticed I’ve gone missing. There is quite a bit of excitement at Cloverhill.”

“All are feting the new duke?” he asked, dry and wry.

She cocked her head to the side, a tiny acknowledgment of his sarcasm. “All are feting his upcoming marriage.”

He looked up sharply at that.

“Not to me,” she put in hastily, raising a hand as if to ward off the query.

“Yes,” he murmured. “All that feting would be a bit awkward without the bride.”

Her mouth clamped together, betraying her impatience with him. But she kept her temper, saying, “He is marrying Grace.”

“Is he now?” He smiled at that. For real. “That’s good. That’s a good thing.”

“They seem to love each other very much.”

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